


Interlude #2 - The Diary

by Soledad



Series: The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord [6]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Anthea is actually an android from outer space, Classic Doctor Who References, F/M, Immortal Ianto Jones, The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord, Time Lord Mycroft Holmes, Time Lord Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4688534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second interlude of the series "The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord" focuses on Molly Hooper, her growing friendship with Mary and a secret from her family's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Holmes Thwarts the Dinner Plans

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. The story starts on March 20, meaning that I’ve backdated “The Big Banker” to fit it in, matching John and Molly’s blog entries.
> 
> A few lines are actually borrowed from Molly’s blog and are therefore not mine.

As usual with any information the sharing of which didn’t serve Sherlock’s immediate purposes, Molly was the last of their small circle of friends/helpers/acquaintances to learn about John’s ex-wife and the dramatic story of Mary’s life. John did feel a little ashamed when he realised this and tried to make up for his oversight by suggesting a little get-together.

Just the three of them, so that Molly and Mary got the chance to meet and get familiar with each other – although there was the distinct possibility of Sherlock inviting himself along, as always. John started to understand something that Molly had known for a long time: that Sherlock had absolutely no sense for personal boundaries.

Molly liked the idea of getting together but she didn’t want to have it in some impersonal restaurant, no matter how fancy it might be. So she invited them to dinner in her place. That way, she explained, they could also meet Toby – which was an important factor, as the cat was currently the closest thing she had to a family of her own.

Oh, there was still her sister, of course (though no longer her parents, unfortunately), but she’d moved to Canada long before _Maman_ ’s death, and besides, they had never been close, due to the fairly big age difference. And Aunt Margaret, after whom Molly had been named but hadn’t even met for years. And her estranged brother, living in Australia or New Zealand or some other remote place, she wasn’t even sure any more. And cousins of various grades scattered all across the globe... Mum had had a lot of siblings.

Yes, she _did_ have family, but most of them were out of reach, and in the end it all came down to Toby. She sometimes couldn’t decide whether she should laugh or cry about it, but yeah, right now her family consisted of a tabby cat that she’d bought less than a month ago.

She was officially turning into a mad old cat woman. She was thirty-one, she was single – and she’d bought a cat. Even posted pictures of said cat on her blog. Hell, her entire blog was decorated with kitten pics!

On a _pink_ background! She didn’t even _like_ pink, not even at the age of thirteen, when she ditched her only Barbie doll (a gift from Aunt Margaret) and all its eye-hurtingly pink paraphernalia. And yet she’d chosen a pink background for her blog... and a fairly appalling shade of pink, at that. Like baby socks, with kittens. At her age! How pathetic was _that_?

Of course, Meena from the DNA lab always said that every single girl their age needed either a cat or a gay best friend. Molly figured a cat would be less fuss. So she’d bought one.

Besides, Meena was a category unto herself. How she’d managed to attract every male being that came close to her, despite being built like a tank was beyond everyone, really. Perhaps it was a Korean thing; that smooth, doll-faced, fake innocence.

Not that Molly really cared. But she did wonder where Meena planned to find the time either for a cat or for a gay best friend between all her torrid affairs. She was too busy screwing all the straight ones that had fallen victim to her formidable charms. Still, she was good company and quite fun to talk to during lunch breaks. Beyond that, their interests were simply too different to become friends.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
But John Watson was a friend, even though only via Sherlock, and Molly was quietly excited about having him and his ex-wife as guests. She was really looking forward to meet Mary. She cleaned the flat thoroughly (not that it had been untidy before, but still), agonised over the menu choices, bought the necessary ingredients and prepared everything in advance as far as it was possible.

Only for Sherlock to drag John off on some stupid case at the moment the Watsons arrived at _Bart_ ’s to fetch her.

Molly was in tears. Literally. She’d been so looking forward to a nice evening with her friends, and Sherlock ruined it for her without a second thought.

Or a first one, for that matter.

“That man needs a serious smack-down,” Mary muttered angrily. She, too, had been looking forward to meet Molly; the only woman around the Baker Street duo who wasn’t an ex-girlfriend of John’s.

“That’s what he always does,” Molly sniffed. “I make plans – I always have plans – but he just rides all over everything.”

“Well, why do you let him?” asked Mary reasonably. Molly shrugged.

“I don’t even know,” she admitted. “It’s not that I’m really shy, you know. I’m _not_. Not with other people. I’m a sensible girl, I always have been. I worked hard to get this job, and I’m proud of it – even though some people tend to react _funny_ when they learn where I work.”

“Remind them of Dana Scully,” Mary suggested.

“I don’t think I’d have so much in common with the star of an American TV-show,” Molly replied mournfully. “Usually, I’m in control, though. ‘Little Miss Perfect”, as my mates call me. But as soon as he walks into the room, I’m suddenly this little mouse. He turns me into a _mouse_!”

Personally, Mary found that Molly behaved like a frightened rabbit, at least in Sherlock’s presence, but given her own past, who was she to criticise the nervous little pathologist?

Besides, they didn’t know each other well enough to judge Molly’s general character just yet.

“Do you love him?” she asked instead gently.

Molly shrugged again.

“Yeah. At least I think I do. Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asked back.

Mary smiled, remembering the day she’d stumbled into a younger, still fresh-faced John Watson… quite literally, and what a defining moment of her life _that_ had been.

“Oh, yes,” she confessed. “Sometimes thunderbolt moments do happen.”

“Yeah, it was exactly like that,” Molly agreed enthusiastically. “And ever since, I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s so intelligent, it’s like he’s burning. And he’s so cool, but not really. And he’s fit. Oh, he’s really fit. And I can’t stop thinking about him,” she trailed off in embarrassment. “I’ve already said _that_ , haven’t I? I’m babbling, am I?”

“You’re in love; you are allowed to,” Mary replied tolerantly. “You still shouldn’t let him walk over you.”

“It’s not that I _want_ to,” Molly said miserably. “It’s just… I don’t understand him. One minute he’s noticing the tiniest thing about me, like my lipstick or so, and the next it’s like I’m not here at all!”

“You mean he’s rude and inconsiderate,” Mary translated the statement.

Molly nodded glumly. “I was tempted to name my cat after him, you know. But Toby is cute and fluffy, so the name wouldn’t really fit.”

Mary tried to reconcile ‘cute and fluffy’ with Sherlock – and failed spectacularly. Everyone would have.

“No, I don’t think it would,” she agreed; then she rose from the lab stool where she was sitting. “Let’s go then.”

“Where to?” Molly gave her a deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Well, you’ve bought food and made preparations; it would be a shame to waste them,” Mary said reasonably. “We should go to your place and cook that dinner you’ve planned. And drink the bottle of wine John’s bought for the evening. If those two idiots don’t show up, we can have a girls’ night in, just the two of us.”

Molly perked up at once. “That’s a great idea! You can text John to pick you up at mine. Why should we sit here and wait like two abandoned brides left at the altar?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do the texting,” Mary said. “I don’t have a mobile phone.”

“What?” Molly stared at her as if she’d sported a second head, all of a sudden. “But – but _everyone_ has one!”

“I don’t,” Mary replied. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything while we cook, I promise.”

And so Molly texted John to pick Mary up at her place, and then they called a cab and went back to said place – as a rule Molly would have used the Tube, but she decided that taking a cab was part of the celebration. She was quite cheered up that the evening wouldn’t be a complete waste, after all.

~TBC~


	2. Sherlock Holmes Thwarts the Dinner Plans

Molly’s little flat turned out something of a surprise for Mary. She’d expected either something very modern, with clean lines and sparse décor (Molly was a modern young woman with a demanding job that allowed her little to no illusions about how ephemeral life is) or – based on her tendency to wear fluffy clothes – the life-sized version of a Barbie doll house, all pink and white with gilded contours.

Instead, entering it was like stepping back in time.

For starters, it had no foyer at all. Through the front door, one stepped directly into the living area, separated only by a stripe of tiled floor, with a coat hanger and a built-in wardrobe on either side of the door, the usual cylindrical holder for umbrellas and a large basket for the cat.

The living room was of considerable size but seemed smaller, due to the fact that it was fairly cluttered. The open bookshelves, thankfully, blended out most of the hideously patterned wallpaper – something with oversized flowers, none of which really existed in nature, of that Mary was certain. Unfortunately, a similar (though not quite identical) pattern returned on the dust covers of the large, comfortable, old-fashioned armchairs that stood around the coffee table.

An outdated telly stood upon an antiquated-looking chest of drawers, opposite the front door, but Molly didn’t seem to own either a video recorder or a DVD-player.

“Oh, I watch my favourites on my laptop,” she explained.”It’s more comfortable; I can take it to bed with me. Come, I’ll give you the grand tour. I’ll just let Toby out first; he spent the whole day in the flat, the poor thing.”

As if he’d just been waiting for his keyword, the cat appeared from wherever it had been hiding, rubbed his head against Molly’s ankle and meowed impatiently. Molly laughed and opened the door for him. Without as much as a backward glance – clearly annoyed by the fact that he’d been shut into the flat – the cat shot out of the door and was gone.

Molly didn’t seem concerned.

“He’ll be back when he gets hungry,” she said, closing the door, and they began the tour through the flat.

It was a short one, for the flat wasn’t very large. At least the bedroom, matched Mary’s expectations to a certain extent, as it was furnished with white furniture that might have been Chippendale; or, at least, a fairly good imitation. Molly actually had a four-poster bed, with its curtains bound back in a decorative fashion and with mauve sheets of high-count, expensive cotton. The bedroom clearly also served as a study; there was a somewhat aged desktop computer on a white desk, with numerous orders full of case files or other work-related stuff on a shelf above it. Molly’s laptop, on the other hand, was on the bedside table, signalling its recreational purposes.

Opposite the bedroom and the adjoining bath – the latter fairly modern and practical – on the left side of the door was the dining area: a small kitchen, separated from the long, narrow dining room by a glass door that had an ornate, old-fashioned brass handle. The dining table was long and narrow, too, made of dark, polished wood, and high-backed, cushioned chairs of the same made stood at it, three on each side.

The windowsill had been turned into a display surface, on which framed family photographs stood, mixed with other girly clutter like knitting needles, thread, a sewing basket and paperback romance novels. Molly clearly liked to spend time here.

The kitchen cupboard, too, had to be at least a hundred years old; there were even lace curtains decorating its glass doors. The oven, however, was a fairly new model that only came out a couple of years ago; modern and shiny, with all the bells and whistles a woman who liked to cook could wish for. The working surface had a marble-like plate, and on a shelf above it were cooking books of all sorts: glossy new ones as well as old, battered and even hand-written ones.

“These are the best,” Molly took of one of those and carefully turned the yellowed pages. “These are _Maman_ ’s own recipes.”

“You mean your mother’s?” Mary clarified.

“No, my grandmother’s,” Molly put the relic back onto the shelf. ”She was Mum’s mother, and as Mum died when I was fairly little, we were at _Maman_ ’s a lot. I was the youngest, so I spent the most time with her. This was her place, you know; where she lived in the last ten or so years of her life. She willed it to me when I graduated – much to Aunt Margaret’s dismay.”

“Did your aunt want the flat for herself?” Mary asked, while Molly set up the potatoes for the shepherd’s pie to boil.

Molly nodded. “Yeah. She’s the oldest, so she thought it should have gone to her. I don’t really understand why she wanted it so badly; after all, _Maman_ left her the Harris estate on the east coast, where she grew up and lived as a newly wed.”

“Your grandmother was born a Harris?” Mary was a little surprised.”I thought she was French.”

Molly shook her head. ”Nah, she was English all right. I don’t really know why we all called her _Maman_ – it was just something we did.”

“She sounds like an interesting person,” Mary said. “Do you have any pictures of her?”

“We used to have a whole photo album,” Molly heated oil in a sauce pan and dumped the minced meat into it, stirring the mix with a wooden spoon. “But no-one knows where it has gone after her death. Unless Aunt Margaret took it out of sheer spite. Together with that book of her stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Oh, you know, the usual ones: about adventures and monsters and time travel and stuff,” Molly said vaguely. “She wrote them herself, by long-hand, in the form of a diary written by a fifteen-year-old Victorian girl. She used to read those stories out loud to us when we were little; she even did the voices,” she smiled. “There was one particular sort of evil robots, Kaleds, or Dalleks, I’m no longer sure. They looked like oversized pepper pots with sucker arms that were supposed to produce a particularly shrill, high-pitched shriek when they ordered somebody to be exterminated. When _Maman_ did their voices, we always hid behind the sofa, so afraid were we.”

Mary laughed. “You were afraid of pepper pots?”

“They were large, evil pepper pots with deadly sucker arms that could suck out your brains; and ray weapons that could disintegrate you on the spot,” Molly pretended to be offended but the corners of her mouth were curved upward. “ _And_ a horrible shriek, apparently.”

They both laughed at that, the image too ridiculous for a grown-up to be taken seriously. But Mary could imagine that small children would be frightened.

“Your _Maman_ had a very vivid imagination,” she then said.

“I know,” Molly replied with a thoughtful smile.”As a child, I actually believed every word in those stories. It was such a disappointment when I finally realised that they’d been just that: stories,” she tested the boiling potatoes with a fork. “They’re just right, think. I’ll make the potato mash now. Would you mind to open the wine bottle in the meantime?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Twenty minutes later the shepherd’s pie was happily cooking in the oven and the two women shared the bottle of wine and some salted peanuts in the living room, sharing some stories of their past as well. Naturally, Mary had the more dramatic stories to share, to which Molly listened with great interest.

They were both a little tipsy by then, and Molly became all sentimental about the lack of her love life, opening up to Mary like to no one before. Unsurprisingly, _her_ stories focused mostly on Sherlock, and Mary, who had a personal interest in learn everything she could about the eccentric flatmate of her ex-husband, was fascinated by them.

“... and on the very day he and John first met – which happened in my lab at _Bart_ ’s, by the way – he came to the morgue to beat a fresh corpse with a riding crop.”

“He did _what_?” Mary couldn’t quite believe her ears.

Molly giggled. “He said he needed to know what bruises would form in the next twenty minutes. Apparently, a man’s alibi depended on it,” she became a bit teary-eyed all of a sudden. “I actually brought up the courage to ask him out on that day, and he... he didn’t even realised what I was doing. For a genius, he can be really clueless sometimes.”

“Oh, dear!” Mary made vaguely compassionate noises. “That’s hard.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Molly agreed with an unhappy smile. ”And that on the same day when he _finally_ commented on my lipstick.”

“He did?” Molly found that a little hard to believe.

“He did,” Molly sighed. ”Of course, it didn’t do me much good. First he said I was wearing too much lipstick; and then he said I wasn’t wearing enough. I just don’t know,” she trailed off pensively. “Connie Prince would know. She’s fab.”

Mary frowned. “Connie _who_?”

“You don’t know Connie Prince?” Molly’s eyes widened comically, as if she were in shock. “Oh, my, we must change that right away! Wait here!”

She hopped on one foot to her bedroom to fetch her laptop (having lost a slipper in the process) but before she could reach her destination, the doorbell rang. Mary rose from her armchair.

“Oh, John’s finally here! Is it all right if I let him in?”

Molly waved her consent vaguely. But when Mary opened the door, it wasn’t John standing on the threshold. It was a uniformed delivery man, carrying a sizeable cardboard box.

“Delivery for Miss Molly Hooper,” he said.

“Coming!”

Molly kicked off her other slipper and went to accept the parcel, wearing only her pink socks that had grey kittens on them. She signed the delivery slip, let the man out and carried the box into the living room, placing it on the coffee table. Then she looked at the sender address and her eyes widened in surprise.

“From Aunt Margaret,” she said in awe. “But why would she send me anything? She’s never done so since I turned fourteen.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Mary said reasonably.

~TBC~


	3. Inheritance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place directly before “The Great Game” and is centered on Molly. Previous knowledge about Classic!Who isn’t necessary – but could be helpful.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mary asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“I’m not sure,” Molly admitted. “If it’s really from Aunt Margaret, it could be anything, from a _really_ ugly hand-knit jumper to a dead rat.”

Mary laughed. “You really think your elderly aunt... how old is she anyway?”

“Seventy-eight... well, seventy-seven at the moment, as she’d insist. She won’t turn seventy-eight until next month.”

“Close enough. You really think your seventy-eight-year-old aunt would send you a dead rat? That’s ridiculous!”

“You don’t know Aunt Margaret,” Molly said darkly.”She’d think a dead rat were the perfect gift for me.She’s called me a necrophile, ever since I chose to go into forensics; and called my Dad a pervert because he made me interested in pathology in the first place.”

“Your father was a pathologist, too?”

Molly nodded. ”A forensic pathologist, yes. He taught me what a miracle the human body is and how much we can learn from it. He and Mum hoped my brother would follow him but Louis gets sick from the mere thought of a dead body... or that of regular working hours. I, on the other hand, used to obduct dead animals with Dad at the age of eight already. Aunt Margaret found that... disturbing. She never liked my Dad very much... or me, for that matter.”

“Why not?” Mary asked in surprise. “One would think that a bright girl with a career would cast a positive light on the whole family.”

“I’m not sure, really,” Molly confessed.”Perhaps because Dad was a doctor.Aunt Margaret hated doctors; _any_ doctors, even the vet – although she did take her dogs to gettheirs hots and things. While she still _had_ dogs, I mean. She was doting on them as if they were her children.”

“But why did she hate doctors?” Mary asked. “Little old ladies usually adore their doctors, especially those with no families of their own. Did she have bad experiences?”

“She never told us anything conclusive,” Mary reduced the heat in the oven and picked a knife from the block standing on the marble(ish) working surface. “She sometimes made mysterious hints about how a doctor was really bad for _Maman_ , but as far as I know Maman was practically never ill, and she never complained about her doctors either. Perhaps it was all in Aunt Margaret’s head. She’s always been a bit eccentric,” she eyed the parcel suspiciously. ”All right, I’m ready to face the dead rat now.”

“It might not be that bad,” Mary said encouragingly. “Perhaps it _is_ an ugly jumper, after all.”

“I wish,” Molly inserted the knife-point under the tape and slid the blade expertly along it.

Mary tried to ignore the knowledge where the expertise of her host came from.

Putting the knife aside, Molly folded the flaps of the cardboard box outwards and sniffed. Whatever might be in the box, it definitely wasn’t a dead rat. The smell coming from inside was a tiny bit stuffy, with a well-recognisable touch of lavender cologne... not unlike the one one would expect when opening the linen cupboard of one’s grandmother.

“ _Old Lavender_!” Molly said in surprise. “ _Maman_ used to wear that scent all the time!”

“Perhaps your aunt sent you something of her old things,” Mary suggested.

Molly shook her head doubtfully. “Seems so, doesn’t it? It’s strange, though. Aunt Margaret has always been so jealous of us, children; even of Mum. As if she wanted to have _Maman_ for herself alone. Why would she send me her things now, after all this time?”

“There’s a letter on the top,” Mary pointed out. “Perhaps it can answer that question.”

“But it isn’t from Aunt Margaret,” Molly picked up the narrow white envelope and turned it this way and that.”It’s from Cousin Freddie’s law firm.”

“Doesn’t seem to be anything official, though, seen that it’s hand-written,” Mary said.

“Yeah; with Freddie’s ungodly crawl,” Molly pulled a face. “And they say we doctors have bad handwriting.”

She opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper with the header of Freddie’s law firm. The message itself was short; just a couple of lines.

_Hi Molls,_

_You probably haven’t heard yet, but Aunt Margaret passed over last month. I’m sorry, but her will clearly stated that she didn’t want you – or either of your siblings – at the funeral, and that you weren’t supposed to get anything from her._

_The Harris estate’s gone to Cousin Timothy, as expected. (He says you’re welcome to visit any time, BTW.) However, we found this box in the attic with Maman’s old things, and since you were always her favourite, we thought you should have it. Nobody wants the clutter anyway._

_Timothy is organising a family get-together somewhen in the not too distant future. He’ll send you an invitation (unless he forgets it, as most things), but he asked me to inform you well in advance. We know how busy your working schedule is._

_Welll, take care and make sure you’ll come to Aunt Margaret’s good-bye party._

_Freddie_

Molly read the message twice, then she handed it to Mary without explanation.

“Well,” Mary said, after reading it, too.”I assume this was unexpected.”

“Yeah,” Molly said glumly. “And now I feel terrible for the things I’ve just said about my aunt.”

“Don’t,” Mary replied sharply.”Yes, she’s dead, but from what you1ve told me she was a bitter, spiteful, unpleasant woman and the world is better of without her. Especially you. It was nice of your cousin to send you this stuff, though.”

“You mean since no-one else wanted it?” Molly laughed humourlessly. “Anyway, as it’s here anyway we can take a look, I guess.”

She chose the direct way by simply tearing off one side of the cardboard box, revealing an old-fashioned travelling trunk inside. It seemed the genuine Victorian item – or, at least, a very good imitation.

It wasn’t particularly large as vintage trunks go: less than a metre wide and half a metre high and deep, with a barrel top, leather handles and protective metal banding both on top and sides. It was covered in faded yellow leather – well, more ochre, actually – and when Molly lifted the top, they could see that it was lined with some brown-and-white patterned fabric. A piece of the same fabric covered the contents, the corners tucked in neatly.

“What is this?” Mary asked. “An old clothes chest?”

“A travelling trunk, actually,” Molly replied. “Chests were used for storage only. Trunks, on the other hand, for extended periods away from home: like for boarding school, or long trips abroad,” she laughed, a little embarrassed. “God, I sound like Sherlock! But _Maman_ always insisted on the correct terminology.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Mary smiled gently. “So, was this your grandmother’s trunk, then?”

“I guess so,” Molly shrugged. “I remember seeing it in her room on the estate in any case.”

“That’s not what the label says, though,” Mary pointed at the yellowed label on the inside of the top, where it stood in faded ink: Miss Victoria Waterfield, London, Westminster. It was hand-written in a rather old-fashioned copperplate script. “I thought your grandmother’s maiden name was Harris?”

Molly nodded. “It was, yes. I saw Mum’s birth certificate with my own eyes. Victoria Waterfield was the name of the girl, the main character in _Maman_ ’s stories, though. I always wondered where it came from; now we know. Perhaps she bought the trunk second-hand and took a liking to the name.”

“It does have a nice sound,” Mary agreed. “This thing might be older than it looks… and it seems rather full, too. I wonder what your grandmother kept here.”

“Me, too,” Molly grinned, slowly getting excited. “Let’s the treasure hunt begin!”

“Do you expect any valuable things?” Mary inquired.

Molly shook her head. “No; _Maman_ was reasonably well-off but not actually rich.”

“But if she owned an estate…”

“She didn’t; not really. The ‘Harris estate’ is nothing more than a house with a large garden. She called it an estate because she liked to play make-believe, and the name stuck. But it’s just a house; one that was way too big for her once all her children left and founded families of their own. It swallowed her modes income, which is why she gave it to Aunt Margaret, whose husband left her with enough money to keep it.”

“And your cousin who inherited it?”

“Timothy? Oh, he’s a real estate agent; he’ll know what to do with it. Perhaps he’ll turn it into a small hotel or something. Honestly, I’m happy not to be the one to shoulder such a burden. This little flat is all I need – and I wouldn’t give up my job or leave London anyway.”

She stood, switched off the oven, leaving the shepherd’s pie in it to keep it warm.

“I’ll put the salad together later,” she said. “I prefer it fresh. Let’s take a look at my inheritance.”

~TBC~


	4. Treasure Hunt

She removed the chequered fabric covering the contents and spread it on the coffee table, taking the wine bottle and glasses back to the kitchen.

“We can put everything here as we take them out of the trunk,” she said practical-mindedly.

The first thing she found was a pair of grey kid leather gloves and a lady’s silk hat of the same colour. Both items were fairly small in size; definitely small for Molly, probably meant for a very young girl. The hat was decorated with a pale rosé ribbon and a grey plumage, and the gloves came with polished double wooden… sticks that tapered off on both ends and the purpose of which Mary couldn’t even begin to guess.

“Oh, I remember these!” Molly cried in delight. “These are glove stretchers; you pushed them down the fingers of the glove to stretch the leather. That made it easier to put on the gloves if they were too tight.”

“You’ve actually worn these gloves?” Mary asked in surprise. “And the silk hat, too?”

“Not regularly,” Molly laughed. “Only a couple of times, actually. I liked fancy dress parties as a child, and _Maman_ liked to dress me up as a proper little Victorian girl of good house… down to the matching underwear,” she added, pulling a white camisole top from the trunk. “I believe these things were worn under the corset.”

“She made you wear a corset?” Mary was fairly scandalised by the mere thought.

Molly laughed again. “Of course not I just got to wear the top. _And_ the bloomers,” she added, presenting the knee-length, frilled undies that were open on the bum. “But I always wore real pants under these. It would have been… embarrassing otherwise. Just like those stupid hospital scrubs. You know, if I think about it, some things haven’t changed for the last two hundred years.”

They laughed, and Mary continued unpacking. A few more items of clothing surfaced, all small sized – meant for a young girl, obviously – like a white petticoat or a nightdress. The last of them was a teenage girl’s walking dress, which Molly also recognised as having worn on fancy dress parties.

It was a beautiful piece of period clothing: white, with a floral pattern of the same burnt rose colour as the ribbon on the hat. The bottom tier of the gown shirt had three layers of ruffles and the top tier was trimmed with blue satin ribbon in the same hue as the ruffles. The dress bodice and the sleeves were trimmed with white cotton lace. The undersleeves were gathered into a wrist band, which closed with buttons. The dress closed on the back with buttons and had a large bow of blue satin ribbon. Mary assumed that it originally had been worn over a child’s hoop for fullness.  
  
Even so, it was the secret dream of every little girl that wanted to be a princess.

“I can’t believe _Maman_ kept all this stuff,” Molly said in awe. “I mean, it’s been ages since I last fit in. Half my life ago…”

“She must have loved you very much,” Mary commented. “ _Or_ these clothes had a significance for her that we can’t understand. Let’s see what else is there!”

The next item was a handspan long, thin and cylindrical, with a handle on one side. The only possible purpose Mary could think of made her blush furiously, although she found it hard to imagine that Molly’s grandmother would own such a things. Even less that she’d leave it to her favourite granddaughter.

Molly clearly guessed what she was thinking because she laughed herself silly.

“It’s not what you think,” she finally said. “Believe it or not, it’s a nail buffer.”

“A _what_?”

“A nail buffer,” Molly repeated. “They used it to make their fingernails shine. Back in the 19th century, I mean, before nail polish would become commonplace. _Maman_ had a lot of such weird stuff. Apparently, her father was a collector of Victorian antiques – not the really expensive things, mind you, just household items, like this thing.”

“Or the glove stretchers,” Mary guessed.

Molly nodded. “Yes, those, too. Or like these.”

_These_ were a small, conical object with a ripped surface, obviously made of silver, and a fine little silver thimble that seemed to go with it. After a few tries Molly managed to screw the top of the cone open. Within, there were half a dozen stitching and sewing needles, each of a different size and thickness.

“A sewing kit!” Mary realised, and Molly nodded again.

“Yes, I remember that _Maman_ used to keep these in a little blue purse. It looked like a short, fat sausage and had a long silver tassel on each end… oh, here it is!” she cried in triumph and pulled a velvet purse out of the trunk.. It must once have been a deep, royal blue but was quite faded in colour by now, the tassels on each end tattered and blackened with age.

Within, there were a few spools of sewing thread, but the men who’d packed the trunk had forgotten to put needle case and thimble back to their place. Or they hadn’t known that the purse was a sewing kit in the first place.

“I think I’ll keep these with my other stitching things in the dining-room,” Molly decided. “I mean, they’re like a piece of family history, aren’t they?”

“They’re certainly unique,” Mary agreed. “Not many people will have such old things – and in such a good shape, too – I think.”

The next item they found was a clothes brush with a silver handle and black bristles, which Molly – after some hesitation – simply hung up on the coat rack, so that it would be at hand whenever needed.

Then came a long, narrow perfume bottle, made of clouded glass, with a bauble-patterned surface. It was empty now (and had been since the death of Molly’s grandmother, most likely) but it still smelled faintly of _Old Lavender_ when opened.

“I remember this one, too,” Molly sniffed on it with a wistful smile. “ _Maman_ said it had belonged to her mother. Once there had been a dispenser to it, too, but that got lost somehow.”

“It had to be an old family heirloom,” Mary said. “These bottles haven’t been made after the early 20th century any more,” at Molly’s surprised look she shrugged. “My mother had one of these, too. She told us time and again how rare they were; the original ones, not the modern copies, mind you. She was so proud of having one.”

“I’ll put it onto the bathroom shelf above the sink,” Molly decided. “It will look good there; besides, that’s what it is for, right?”

“Please, promise me you aren’t going to wear lavender perfume!” Mary begged. “That’s so last century it isn’t even funny!”

Molly laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to. That was _Maman_ ’s favourite scent, not mine.”

Next, the trunk produced some jewellery – nothing fancy, just a pearl necklace, a matching bracelet interspersed with amethysts and a gold ring, all too small-sized to be worn by a grown woman. They had been in a little evening bag, stitched with a knotwork pattern of green, pale yellow, red and white.

After that came a true antiquity: a writing set with a steel nib pen, an empty ink bottle and a pen tray made of brass.

“Oh, I remember these!” Molly laughed “We all learned to write with a nib pen when we were children. _Maman_ insisted and our parents didn’t mind. Which is probably why my handwriting is still better than that of the average doctor.”

She put the old-fashioned writing set aside and unearthed a book next: and old copy of _The Mill on the Floss_ by George Eliot. By the sight – and the coarse texture – of it, it had to be an early edition. On the upper corner on the inside front page someone had written the name _Victoria Waterfield_ and the number 1866.

“That’s odd,” Mary said. “The book doesn’t look _that_ old. And there’s that name again. The same one as on the label inside the lid of the trunk. Do you think it might have come with the trunk?”

Molly shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen this book before. But it has to be an early edition, as it was published under the author’s male pseudonym. Female Victorian novelists tended to write under male names, even the Brontë sisters.”

She turned a few pages, and a photograph fell out of the book. It was brown with age and showed a little girl in a dress Mary had only seen on vintage porcelain dolls before. The girl was also doll-faced, dark-haired, presumably blue-eyed, and she seemed to have a sweet, agreeable nature.

“On the back of the photo stood in old-fashioned copperplate script: _Victoria, aged 5. Photographed by Mr Charles Dogdson, anno 1852_.

“The same name again,” Mary murmured in surprise. “This can’t be a coincidence. The book must have come with the trunk. Perhaps the previous owner forgot about it. or didn’t want it any more. But who is this Charles Dogdson? A famous photographer of the era perhaps?”

“No; this is the real name of C.S. Lewis, the writer,” Molly replied absent-mindedly.

Mary’s eyes widened. “The one who wrote the _Narnia_ stories?”

Molly nodded. “The same one. Apparently, he was a devoted amateur photographer. _Maman_ liked his books, so she told us all about his life.”

“Perhaps that’s why your grandmother played Victoria,” Mary suggested. “Because she was photographed by her favourite author.”

“That’s possible, I guess,” Molly allowed. “She was a sweet girl, too. “Now, let’s see what else is there!”

She found a little card case, made of wood, with an ebony and ivory veneer. Inside the box, however, was not the calling card of a lady but a business card in the style of the 1960s, which said:

  
_“Waterfield’s Antiquities”_  
Specialist in Victoriana  
‘As Good As New! 

and, a little further down, on the left side:

_K. Perry, Esquire London_  


“And the name Waterfield again; this time from a much later era,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Could it have come with the trunk, too?”

“I’ve no idea,” Molly admitted. “Perhaps the trunk was sold, after it had been standing in the Lost Luggage Department of some railway station for a long time without being claimed by anyone. Such things happen. Although I can’t really imagine _Maman_ going to such auctions.”

“Perhaps her parents did,” Mary suggested, “and she found it standing in the attic, collection dust, and became fascinated with the owner. You said she made up stories about her later. Children do find such things mysterious and exciting.”

“Perhaps,” Molly allowed, not entirely convinced. Before she could voice her doubts, though, the doorbell rang.

“Oh!” Mary’s eyes lit up. “John’s here!”

“Let him in, will you?” Molly said. “I’ll start laying the table in the meantime.”

But when Mary answered the door, John didn’t stand on the threshold alone. Sherlock was with him.

~TBC~


	5. The Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things Molly finds in the trunk are genuine Victorian items. Search the wonderful Internet for Victorian luggage and you'll find the most amazing stuff!
> 
> * * *

"Oh!" Mary couldn't quite hide her disappointment. "It's _you_. We won't be having dinner with Molly, then," she added, addressing John, while Sherlock rolled his eyes demonstratively.

"I thought the two of you already _had_ dinner," John replied, studiously ignoring Sherlock's blatant display of boredom and gave her ex-wife a quick kiss.

"We planned to," Mary kissed him back briefly. "But then Molly got this parcel with her grandmother's things and we started to unpack it and got distracted. Some of its contents are really mysterious."

John groaned when he saw Sherlock's eyes lit up with interest.

"You shouldn't have used the M word, love," he said. "Now we won't be having any dinner tonight. You've just let the geenie out of the bottle."

"Don't be ridiculous, John!" Sherlock was already snooping around the things displayed on the coffee table. "Hmmm, a late 19th century writing set… interesting. Never seen one in such a good condition. Oh, a first edition George Eliot! And in a remarkably good shape, too. I wonder how they preserved it so well. Perhaps if I took a sample from the paper…"

"No, you'll do no such thing!" Molly interrupted angrily. "I'd do a lot of things for you, Sherlock, but I won't let you damage _Maman'_ s book!"

"Oh, all right!" Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Have you found anything else of interest?"

"I don't see how this is _your_ business, but we haven't finished yet," replied Molly testily.

Sherlock raised an arrogant eyebrow. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"For you to leave," Mary answered instead of the visibly hurt Molly. "You were _not_ invited. It's annoying enough that you've ruined our dinner by dragging John off with you on one of your cases…"

"Oh, it was a boring one, barely a five," Sherlock waved her off breezily. " _This_ is much more interesting."

"And none of your business," Mary returned.

She was very different from the frightened, timid creature they had rescued from her stepfather's clutches just a couple of weeks ago. Having the substances that had held her under Dr Roylott's influence flushed from her system, the true strength of her personality had re-emerged, and she refused to be intimidated by Sherlock. Even though she was grateful to _Mycroft_ for the rescue.

Molly looked from her to Sherlock and back with the expression of a trapped rabbit.

John realised that the situation needed some interference from his side. Besides, he was starving, and something in the oven smelt heavenly.

"Er… Molly," he cleared his throat. "Do you think you could allow us to watch you finish unpacking? That would calm Sherlock down – and then, perhaps, we can have a taste of whatever smells so wonderful in that oven?"

He gave Molly such a hopeful look that she had to laugh, whether she wanted or not.

"All right," she said resignedly. "I'll put the salad together; he can rifle through the things we've already unearthed, and then we can see whatever else is in the trunk."

* * *

Knowing that nothing short a particularly destructive force of nature could stand between Sherlock and whatever he wanted to know, the others accepted the suggestion with a certain level of resignation. Mary followed Molly into the dining area to help with the salad and with laying the table and Sherlock all but threw himself into investigating the foundings and deducing away at light speed.

Particularly interested did he seem in the jewellery, which he identified as a product of the mid-Victorian era, and in the card case with the business card. He whipped out his phone to research the recurring name Waterfield and soon announced that 'Waterfield's Antiquities' actually _had_ existed in the 1960s.

"The shop indeed specialised in Victorian artefacts," he told John who was now his only audience. "The actual owner, Mr Edward Waterfield, mysteriously disappeared after less than a year; as mysteriously as he'd showed up when he'd opened the shop in 1966. His business partner, a certain Mr K Perry, tried to keep the shop up and running but – not having Waterfield's resources – it went bankrupt shortly thereafter. Nobody seems to have known where exactly Waterfield had got the artefacts he was selling but apparently his slogan _As Good As New_ was something of an understatement."

"What do you mean?" John asked with a frown.

"Apparently, he was selling genuine Victorian items in a surprisingly good condition," Sherlock replied. "Things that didn't actually _look_ a hundred years old."

"Just like the book of Molly's grandmother doesn't look like it would really come from the 19th century," John said slowly.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. Which is why I need a sample of the paper."

"No, you don't," John said firmly. "This is not one of your cases, and for Molly that book has sentimental value, so keep your hands off it."

Sherlock pouted but John was adamant. He even went as far as taking the book and carrying it to the dining-room, out of Sherlock's reach. Not that Sherlock wouldn't be able to help himself to a sample anyway, but John was determined to do his best to spare Molly's feelings.

She was hurt by Sherlock's callous behaviour often enough.

Soon, the salad was ready and the table was laid. Molly took the shepherd's pie out of the oven and called everyone to the table. The Watsons came eagerly, especially John who had been running after Sherlock without the chance of even getting lunch all day.

Sherlock sat with them during dinner, drumming with his fingers on the tabletop impatiently. He refused the food offered to him – declaring the menu dull (and earning an unfriendly look from Mary and a kick in the shin from John under the table) – but did steal a few leaves of lettuce from John's plate and ate them absent-mindedly. He did accept a glass of wine, though, sipping on it to fill out the emptiness of time… and pulling a face at every sip.

John rolled his eyes but withheld any comments. Coming from Sherlock, this was practically courteous behaviour.

When dinner was finally over, they went back to the living room. Sherlock was practically trembling in anticipation. John briefly considered sitting on him but then decided against it.

* * *

There weren't many things left in the trunk. A few more books; this time of more recent origins. Books about Nepal and Tibetian culture. Paperback novels by Isaac Asimov: the ones about robots. Books about the history of the British Empire in general and Australia in particular. Books about various science fields, made easy for interested laypersons. It was a rather eclectic mix; Molly's grandmother seemed to have been a woman of wide-spread interests.

The rest was even more colourfully mixed. There were several maps of the Tube tunnels, from different decades of their existence. There was a ten-inch plastic doll of a Scottish Guard in full uniform, accompanied by some furry stuffed animal that looked like the (hypothetical) love child of a grizzly bear and a Yeti and was clearly hand-made. Next came a collection of stitching and crocheting patterns, carefully filed and ordered in an album. And several crocheted doilies.

The last item Molly found on the bottom of the trunk was an old-fashioned diary, covered in a faded rose-print fabric and closed with a small brass padlock. The tiny keys to the paddock – two identical ones – were hanging from it on a small brass ring.

"Oh!" Mary cried out in awe. "It's the girl's diary! The book _Maman_ used to read us the stories from!"

"You mean the book she wrote in the form of a diary of that imaginary Victorian girl?" Mary clarified.

Molly nodded. "Yes; only that she wasn't so imaginary after all, was she? I mean, the trunk clearly belonged to her, and so did the book by George Eliot. Perhaps even the writing set and the jewellery."

"And your grandmother built a heroine around those facts," Mary concluded. "They must have been her inspiration. Them, and the photograph of the girl. But who was Edward Waterfield? Because he apparently _did_ exist. She must have been related to him in some way."

"Perhaps a son or a grandson," John suggested, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No; he was an adult in 1966, and in the 1930s women didn't keep their maiden names in marriage. A nephew or the son of a nephew is more likely… unless the son was born out of wedlock, which would explain why Waterfield's past is shrouded in mystery. Illegitimate sons – or their children – were ridiculously ashamed of things _not_ their fault in those times," he held out a hand expectantly. "May I take a look?"

Molly was a bit reluctant to hand over the diary; but she appreciated that he had, at least, asked. Sherlock unlocked the padlock and carefully slid his fingers across both front and back covers… then stopped.

"There's something hidden in here," he said.

"Where?" the others asked in unison.

"Here," he turned the diary around and gestured to the back cover. "See where the lining has been glued back? It's clearly been lifted, very carefully, and something hidden under the liner. Perhaps, a few sheets of paper or a couple of photographs, as it has left a slight bulge. It's almost a perfect fit, just a slight ear to the paper and a smudge of glue, do you see it?"

Molly examined the evidence and nodded, suddenly very nervous.

"Right," she said in a small voice. "What are we doing about it?"

"Taking a look what else?" Sherlock replied promptly. "Do you have a scalpel at hand?"

~TBC~


	6. Unearthing the Secret

Molly wasn't the only one to react to that question with more than a little bewilderment… although John's reaction was mixed with a touch of fondness.

"I don't keep scalpels in my kitchen cupboard, Sherlock," she finally said; and hated how apologetic she sounded.

Why would she feel the need to apologise? No-one in their right mind would keep scalpels in their home. Especially if one used them at work to cut open dead bodies.

Sherlock, of course, saw these things differently.

"No? What good _are_ you then?" he snapped, earning a not-too-gentle elbow between his ribs from John.

"Manners, Sherlock!" the doctor said warningly.

"But," Molly continued, trying to hide her hurt feelings with very little success, "I do have my great-grandfather's cutthroat razor somewhere."

"And I'm sure she's more than capable of using it to do its name honour," Mary commented with a too-sweet smile. " _If_ the provocation is sufficient enough."

While Sherlock stared at her blankly, completely missing her point, and John desperately tried to cover his giggle with a not-too-convincing cough, Molly went to the bathroom to retrieve the razor that lay on the shelf for purely decorative purposes.

It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, its handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and it was still very sharp. Molly opened it carefully and offered it to Sherlock.

"Go ahead; just try not to damage the diary beyond repair, would you?"

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock hesitated. "Are you sure? As Mary rightly pointed out, you're more than capable of doing it yourself."

Mary gave him a sad little smile.

"True, but I'd be too nervous that I might damage it; and then I _would_ damage it, because I was nervous, so… Just do it before I change my mind."

After another moment of hesitation Sherlock finally nodded and took a seat at the coffee table. He laid the diary at the table, very carefully inserted the razor between the cover and the lining and began cutting.

It took him mere moments to peel away the lining paper. Beneath it was a photograph, one brown with age, and four sheets of paper, also aged and brittle; by the look of them they were letters.

Sherlock looked at the photograph with interest, then passed it to Molly without comment. On the back of the photograph – that of a sweet-faced woman, wearing a full-skirted Victorian dress in the fashion of the 1850s or 1860s – stood, written by a tidy, elegant hand:

 _To my dearest Edward from your loving wife, Edith Rose Waterfield_ , and the date _1863_.

"And there we have the name again," Mary said. "Could this be the wife of that man with the antiquities shop?"

"Of course not, don't be an idiot!" Sherlock replied impatiently. "There are a hundred years between the two of them!"

" _If_ the photo is genuine," John said with an unfriendly glare in Sherlock's direction for the rudeness to his ex-wife. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Do try to keep up, John! This message was written with a nib pen, in a copperplate script. Nobody but a professional calligrapher could reproduce _that_ in these days. However, the fading of the ink shows that it has to be _at least_ fifty years old. Older, if we consider the fact that it was hidden under the lining of the diary and therefore protected from direct sunlight."

"You believe it to be the genuine item, then?" John asked.

"I would… if it wasn't in such a good shape for a one hundred-and-fifty-year-old photograph," Sherlock replied thoughtfully. "The same anomaly as with the George Eliot novel. Perhaps the letters would provide us with a clue."

He reached for them but Molly slapped his hand away with a little more force than strictly necessary.

"If anyone reads those letters that would be me," she said. "This diary belonged to my grandmother. Whatever secrets are hidden within it, they are mine to know."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John silenced him with a quelling look.

"She is right, Sherlock. If there are any family secrets, we're not entitled to learn about them. If Molly chooses to tell us anything later, that will be her decision and hers alone. You'll keep your nose out of this until she says it's all right to sniffle around."

"And if she never does?" The mere thought of _not_ knowing visibly distressed Sherlock.

"Then you'll keep your nose out of it permanently," John replied sternly. "I mean it, Sherlock! I know you usually can talk Molly into just everything, but that's one more reason for you to respect her wishes when she asks you to keep out of her private life."

Sherlock muttered something nasty about Molly not _having_ a private life, and then declared the whole situation boring and stormed off, clearly offended. John sent a rather desperate look after him.

"Oh, God, he'll be sulking for days after this. I dread the moment of getting back to Baker Street."

"You don't have to go back," Mary said. "You can always stay at my place, you know that."

"Or you can both stay here a little longer and we'll read the letters together," Molly offered. "I'm not sure I want to face them alone; and I don't mind _you_ knowing whatever is there."

"Let's do the washing-up first," Mary suggested. "A clean environment is better for one's state of mind. I'll help you, and perhaps John can take a nap in one of these armchairs in the meantime. Clearly, Sherlock wore him out."

John protested that he wasn't _that_ tired (even though his bad shoulder was aching from over-extortion) but the two women outvoted him. So he made himself comfortable in one of the cosy armchairs and by the time Molly had put all the plates into the sink, he was deeply asleep.

* * *

"An unexpected little interlude," commented Mycroft Holmes, watching the footage from Molly's flat in the company of Ianto and Anthea. "Who'd have thought that the memorabilia of Victoria Waterfield might turn up now, of all times?"

"Couldn't they serve as a trigger effect?" Ianto asked.

"Possibly," Mycroft allowed. "But unlikely. Victoria only spent a short time with the Doctor; and with a rather early incarnation of him at that. She remained behind with the Harrises in the 20th century willingly because she found life with the Doctor too dangerous."

"Who'd blame her for that?" Ianto said dryly. "How old was she at that time? Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"Somewhere between the two," Mycroft replied. "She was one of the youngest companions ever to travel with the Doctor. I remember that he was very protective of her; him and that Scottish savage of his, Jimmy or whatever his name was."

"Jamie McCrimmon," Anthea corrected. "And he was hardly a savage, sir. A warrior, for sure, as the time he came from demanded from him, but otherwise a decent young man."

"That explains the Scottish Guard doll," Ianto grinned. "But what about the cave bear plushie?"

"That," Mycroft said matter-of-factly, "is supposed to be a Yeti."

Everyone else would have laughed uproariously at that statement. Ianto, however, became deathly pale.

"You mean there actually _are_ Yeti in the Himalayas?"

"Not any more," Mycroft answered regretfully. "And there certainly weren't any left when the Master sent your colleagues to that wild goose hunt in The Year That Never Was. The true Yeti were gentle creatures, massacred in 1966 when agents of the Great Intelligence used their bodies to create homicidal robots, covered with Yeti fur."

"I know that UNIT got to deal with the Great Intelligence in its early years," Ianto said. "But what happened to the robot Yeti?"

"Oh, they caused some trouble in the Tube a little later," Mycroft shrugged, "But they were dealt with. And that particular event was the foundation of the long friendship between the Doctor and Brigadier – well, then still only Colonel – Lethbridge-Stewart."

He turned to Anthea. "Keep tab on what those three may figure out about Victoria Waterfield. Take any necessary action if you have to. They absolutely must _not_ figure out the truth about Victoria. Not as long as the Doctor still lives in human disguise."

"Shall I seize the letters and the diary?" Anthea asked.

"Only if you have to, and even that only temporarily," Mycroft ordered. "Miss Hooper is right in one thing: they belong to her. And I'm sure that – when the Doctor reverts to himself – she'll be able to face the truth." He gave Ianto a pinched smile. "Human enough for you, Mr Jones?"

"It is a beginning, sir," Ianto replied blandly, without missing a beat.

~TBC~


	7. The Letters of Victoria Waterfield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The samples from Victoria's letters are from "The Doctor – His Lives and Times" by James Goss and Steve Tribe. Go and get it, it's a wonderful vault of treasure!
> 
> * * *

"Well, here we are," Molly said, carefully unfolding the mysterious letters on the coffee table. "Let's see what they can tell us."

She and Mary had done the washing-up and put the contents of the trunk away while John had slept for an hour or so. Now he was awake again, strangely refreshed, and the two women were as eager to learn more as he was.

"How are we going to do this?" he asked.

"Perhaps Molly can read out loud what stands in the letters," Mary suggested. "It's such an old-fashioned handwriting, _I'd_ have difficulties to read it."

"Can _you_ do it?" John asked their host, and Molly nodded.

"It reminds me a bit of the calligraphy _Maman_ taught us when we were children. She had a similar handwriting, just a bit more irregular, because of her artholitiosis."

"She means gout," John translated for Mary helpfully.

She rolled her eyes. "I _know_ what artholitiosis is, John. I'm a trained apothecary, remember?"

"Don't quarrel, children; story time is starting," Molly curled up in one of the empty armchairs, carefully smoothing out the first letter.

_Dear Father,_

_How are you? I hope you are well and happily reunited with Mother. I miss you both terribly, but the Doctor has helped me to keep you both in mind. Sometimes my new life with him and Jamie slows down, and then I remember you both and feel sad that you're gone. I've decided that in these rare moments I shall write you a letter. A letter that I know you'll never read…_

Molly paused and looked up, her eyes shining with tears.

"That's _so_ sad," she said, her voice trembling a little. "Do you think that her parents were dead?"

"It does sound so," Mary said with sad understanding. "Assuming that the letter _was_ written by the girl whom the trunk ordinary belonged."

"I think it was," Molly replied. "I think all these letters were written by her. Otherwise _Maman_ wouldn't have hidden them under the cover of the diary."

"Yes, but why would she do so in the first place?" John asked. "I doubt that anyone would lay claim on them… unless the children or grandchildren of this antiquities guy would be interested, and there's no sign that he _had_ children to begin with."

"Perhaps we'll learn more from the letter," Molly said and continued reading.

_To begin with, I'll recount what's happened to me ever since you died. We stayed on the planet Skaro only until the Doctor had ensured the Daleks are defeated for ever…_

"Wait a minute!" Mary interrupted. "Weren't the Daleks those ridiculous aliens you've mentioned before? The giant pepper pots with the sucker hands?"

"Giant, _evil_ pepper pots," Molly corrected. "That they were indeed. I was always wondering how on Earth _Maman_ would come up with such an idea. They sounded utterly ridiculous – and so _impractical_!"

"Well, perhaps the idea seemed frightening to a young, sheltered Victorian girl," Mary suggested. "It seems your grandmother didn't come up with them at all. She simply borrowed them from this girl, from Victoria."

"They were still scary monsters, though," Molly said thoughtfully. "They used to scare my cousins and me all right. And the stories were _really_ exciting. I'll let you borrow the diary later, so that you can form your own opinion."

"I'm looking forward to it," Mary replied. Now, let's see what else she wrote!"

 _The Doctor, it turns out, really does travel in that big blue box,_ Molly went on with her reading. _It says 'police' on the outside, but on the inside is a remarkably large mansion which the Doctor says has been his home for a considerable number of years. He appears to wander in it endlessly, never settling down for long and we are always having adventures. To begin with, I rather hoped I would have the chance to pause and grieve for you, but frankly, we rarely ever stop for long enough for me to catch my own breath…_

"Travelling in a blue police box that's bigger in the inside?" John laughed. "This is ridiculous! A clear case of grief management with the help of an imaginary friend – or else the doctor was her therapist who played makebelief with her to help her deal with her loss."

"Most likely," Molly agreed. "All the stories _Maman_ told us were about this Doctor – she used to describe him as somebody a bit like Charlie Chaplin – and his blue police box that could travel through space and time. Apparently, the Doctor, Victoria and a young Scotsman of the 18th century – I think it was that Jamie the letter mentions – visited other planets and fought monsters on a regular basis."

"Which is probably why your grandmother got herself that Scottish Guard doll," Mary laughed, too. "Perhaps she wanted to imagine that Jamie character."

"If so, she was off-time by three hundred years or so," Molly replied.

"Go on," John encouraged her. "Let's see what other 'adventures' they went through. This girl had a blooming fantasy, it seems."

"That she certainly had," Molly agreed, carefully smoothing out the yellowed sheet again, and continued reading.

_First we went to the planet Telos, which must be even further off in space than Skaro. We met a party of space archaeologists, who had travelled to this world to uncover the last remains of creatures called the Cybermen – terrible metal robots!_

_They'd be frightening enough, but I gradually understood that the Doctor and Jamie were letting slip (despite their best efforts to protect me from the truth) that inside these automata were actually living creatures, trapped in a sort of walking grave, like Mrs Shelley's fantasies – only real. Luckily, the Doctor defeated the Cybermen for ever as well…_

~TBC~


	8. Choices & Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ianto was killed by her semi-transformed fiancée in the 1st season Torchwood episode "Cyberwoman" and brought back to life by Jack delivering him the "kiss of life". It's a premise of this series that he, too, became immortal due to Jack having transferred part of the Time Vortex received from the heart of the TARDIS to him.
> 
> * * *

"I wish he had," Ianto muttered unhappily. "I'd even forgive him for being an arrogant, inconsiderable twat if he had. Unfortunately, this was just one battle in a very long war that is still going on – and will probably never end. Not as long as a single piece of Cyber-technology exists, in any of the existing realities."

Anthea gave him a cool, calculating look. "The Cybermen still frighten you," she concluded.

Ianto nodded. "More than any other monster I've met during my years with Torchwood and believe me, I _did_ meet my fair share of them."

"More than Abaddon?" Ianto nodded. "More than the Daleks?" Ianto nodded again. "More than the 456 even?"

"Those were a joke compared with the Cybermen," Ianto said grimly.

Anthea raised an inquiring eyebrow. "The 456 killed you!" she pointed out.

"So did Lisa," Ianto returned. "And she'd once been the girl I loved more than life and wanted to marry and spend the rest of my life with her. Trust me, _that_ was magnitudes worse than being killed by grotesque, three-headed aliens that farted poisonous gas."

"Why?" asked the android, clearly not understanding his reasoning. "You were killed both times. Dead is dead, at least for organic beings, isn't it?"

"Cos that Cyberwoman my Lisa has ultimately become killed my last hope for a normal life, too," Ianto explained bitterly. "When she was overwhelmed by her programming, I was also swallowed by Torchwood – and whatever _that_ entailed – for good."

"I thought you liked working for Torchwood," Anthea said, after a moment of processing.

"I liked to work for Torchwood _One_ ," Ianto corrected. "Where I still had a _life_ after work. "Then I elbowed my way into Torchwood Three cos I hoped to save Lisa. She was all that was left from that life I used to have, and Three _might_ have had the necessary technology. When I failed to save her, even caused the death of innocent people in the process – where else could I have gone?"

"You still could have taken that Retcon stuff and leave," the android reminded him.

Ianto shook his head. "I knew too much; both about One _and_ Three. The amount of Retcon needed to forget all that would turn an average human mind into vegetable. It's hard to even guess what it would have done to a photographic memory like mine."

Anthea slowly nodded her understanding.

"Is that why you're considering accepting Mr Holmes's offer to rebuild Torchwood Three in due time?" she asked.

Ianto shrugged. " _Somebody_ has to. The Rift must be monitored. And since Jack's unintentionally turned me into… well, whatever I've become… it's up to me to do so. If only to atone for my mistakes."

"Once Torchwood always Torchwood – is it that?" For an android, Anthea's sarcasm sounded very authentic.

Ianto shrugged again. "Since UNIT has proved less than trustworthy during the 456 crisis… yeah. Which reminds me: we need to deal with the situation of Miss Hooper."

"You mean to seize the letters and the diary, after all?" Anthea clarified.

"Just the letters," Ianto corrected. "The diary is written in the form of science fiction stories for children, apparently, so it doesn't pose any direct risk. Besides, Miss Hooper has known about it since early childhood, and so have her cousins. Selectively erasing a memory that old is near impossible."

"So what is your suggestion then?"

"We'll exchange the letters for different ones, with harmless content, and apply a mild dosage of Retcon to all three people involved. That should take care of the problem for the time being. "Until Miss Hooper can be told the truth."

"Should she be, though?" Anthea appeared doubtful about that. "Wouldn't she be happier, living out her life believing that the stories of her grandmother were just that: stories, born from the over-imaginative mind of a woman, fighting the boredom of her mundane life?"

"In any other case I would agree," Ianto replied. "But her life has been already touched by the Doctor, due to those stories; and no-one touched by him could ever return to a normal life. Not without the memory of him being wiped from their minds."

"We could do _that_ ," the android pointed out, but Ianto shook his head.

"It would be hard to make _anyone_ forget Sherlock Holmes, given the impact he's made on the lives of people around him; and as long as she remembers _him_ , even though he is but a creature of our boss, she won't stop yearning. No; I believe telling her the truth in due time will be the lesser evil; and Mr Holmes agrees with me."

"Of course he does," Anthea commented cynically. "He knows that the Doctor will need a companion – he always does, they all do – and he wants to keep open a second choice, should Dr Watson choose to remain with his wife. Ex-wife. Soon-to-be-again-wife. Whatever."

"Which wouldn't be very fair to Miss Hooper; being second choice, I mean," Ianto said.

"True," the android admitted. "But do you really think she'll be able to resist, once she realises that Sherlock is actually the Doctor from her grandmother's tales?"

"Only better-looking," Ianto said automatically because that was what _Jack_ would have said and he still caught himself to deliver Jack's commentary from time to time. "No, I don't think she'd be able to resist, and the unfairness of it turns my stomach. No human in their right mind should meddle with the affairs of a Time Lord."

"Look who's speaking," Anthea produced a very convincing smirk.

"It wasn't my choice," Ianto reminded her. "If you remember correctly, I didn't _have_ a choice, in any of this."

"Neither will Miss Hooper have one, I'm afraid," Anthea said. "And if the Doctor reverts to himself and Dr Watson happens to choose to go with him gallivanting across the universe, that will break Miss Hooper's heart."

Ianto gave her a wary look. "What do you know about heartbreak? You are a machine."

"I'm an artificial intelligence in a semi-organic body," she corrected. "I am programmed to study the emotional behaviour of organic beings for better understanding. I may not have feelings the way you organics have, but I do have my loyalties and my associates. I understand more than you might believe."

"I see," Ianto said after a lengthy pause. "It seems that androids shouldn't meddle with the affairs of Time Lords, either.

Anthea shrugged; a very human-looking gesture.

"Like you, I have no other choice," she replied simply.

~TBC~


	9. Diversion is the Better Part of Valour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure that one is tired and irascible after getting Retconned, but it seemed fitting. Maud was the middle name of Victoria Waterfield, of course.
> 
> * * *

"All right, John, enough is enough," Sherlock declared two days later, when his flatmate finally returned to Baker Street, after a night spent at Mary's and a double shift at the surgery. "Tell me!"

"Tell you _what_?" John was tired, had a headache and desperately needed a cuppa.

What he _didn't_ need was playing twenty questions with a bored Sherlock.

"The letters, the ones I found under the front cover of the diary of Molly's grandmother," Sherlock specified. "What was in them?"

"Oh, those!"

John had already forgotten about them. They hadn't been particularly interesting. But he couldn't resist teasing Sherlock a bit.

"I'm not sure I should tell you," he declared with great (and totally fake) dignity. "That would be Molly's place, not mine."

"Yes, but it would be advantageous to tell me anyway," Sherlock returned without missing a beat.

John raised an eyebrow. "Define _advantageous_!"

"You could be reasonably sure that I wouldn't grow anything unsavoury in your RAMC mug while you were away working the next time you fix yourself a cuppa," Sherlock said promptly.

"That's blackmail!" John protested half-heartedly.

In theory, he would not put something like that beyond the idiot he cohabited with, but somehow he doubted that Sherlock would do so deliberately. Out of absent-minded ignorance, yes. But not with the express intention to harm him.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock agreed amiably. "Is it working?"

John shook his head ruefully. "When does it not? Was I ever able to keep anything from you that you wanted to know?"

"Of course not, John, don't be ridiculous; that's what I _do_!" Sherlock threw himself into his favourite armchair and drummed on the floor with his bare feet impatiently. "Now tell me about those letters!"

John, being tired and headache-y, decided to torture his flatmate some more as well-earned punishment and made himself a mug of tea first, taking his sweet time. He'd learned the hard way that giving in to Sherlock's demands without resistance was the way that led to madness. Not that going mad wasn't a constant danger when one lived with Sherlock, but it was the principle of the thing.

Finally, when Sherlock was nearly climbing the walls, John made himself comfortable in his own chair, signalling that he was now willing to talk.

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," he confessed. "Those letters were written by Maud Harris, Molly's grandmother, to a bloke who _wasn't_ Molly's grandfather. Written and apparently never sent."

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed on the highest level of offence. "Are you telling me that it was just some romantic nonsense?"

"Afraid so," John replied contentedly, enjoying his tea. It was Darjeeling, courtesy of Mary, not his usual cheap blend from Tesco's.

"But-but that doesn't make any _sense_!" Sherlock protested. "Why would anybody hide such irrelevant letters? Whomever she might have written them, they're most likely dead, and unless Molly's mother was from this mysterious other man, why would anybody care?"

"People have this strange concept calling reputation," John answered dryly.

Sherlock made an impatient gesture. "Oh, come _on_ , John, who cares about reputation?"

"Everybody who isn't _you_ , apparently," John replied in the same dry manner. "Allow us, ordinary mortals, our mundane little concerns, Sherlock. We can't all be mad geniuses."

" _Dull_!" Sherlock declared impatiently. "Have you found anything else in that stupid diary? Anything potentially interesting?"

"No," John admitted, frowning. "But why are you so obsessed with it? _If_ there's any family secret hidden in that diary, it wouldn't be anything of the sort you'd usually bother with."

Sherlock gave him his patented _nobody-can-possibly-be-such-an-idiot_ look. The one usually reserved for the police in general and for Anderson in particular.

"I'm _bored_ , John!" he said, as if pointing out the obvious for the particularly feeble-minded. From his point of view, he probably was. But John wasn't playing along. Not tonight when he was feeling shitty enough already.

"Try to pick up a hobby," he said tiredly, carrying his mug back to the kitchen and putting it into the sink, together with the now cold rest of his tea.

As interesting as life in Baker Street was, it did have its frustrating elements. Not being able to have a cuppa in peace when deadly tired because of Sherlock's constant nagging was one of those. One of the worst ones, actually.

"I'm going to bed," he then announced. "I need sleep the worst way. "And God help me, Sherlock, if you start screeching on your violin in the middle of the night, or blow up anything before I'd wake up on my own, I'll move out of here and back with Mary in that very hour!".

With that, he stormed off and up to his bedroom, not giving Sherlock the chance to as much as open his mouth.

* * *

"This is not good," Mycroft Holmes said grimly.

He was working on several independent crisises at the same time – each capable of and likely to escalate if untended-to – while watching the live feed from 221B with half an eye.

"No," Ianto agreed. "Sherlock is making a mistake, taking Dr Watson for granted. That might have been true at the beginning of their… companionship, when Dr Watson had no alternatives. He has one now. If Ms Morstan sells the house she's inherited from her father's aunt, they can make up that alternate medical practice and make enough for a living whether they choose to remarry or not."

"Which is why I was concerned about the reappearance of Ms Morstan in Dr Watson's life," Mycroft reminded him. "But, of course, you _had_ to get on your moral high horse about it and give _me_ an ultimatum."

He still sounded offended by that.

"And I stand to it, sir," Ianto said, still completely unfazed. "Dr Watson isn't just a war hero; he's also a good, decent man who deserves to make his own choices. That said, I doubt that he'd move out of 221B for good. He just enjoys the fact that now he has a place to escape to when Sherlock's bored and at his most annoying."

"Speaking of which," Mycroft said, "a bored Sherlock is a potentially dangerous Sherlock – both for himself and for his surroundings. Is there any potential case to lure him out of his den, at least temporarily?"

"Hmmm," Ianto consulted his PDA. "Nothing that would attract him in England at the moment, but what about Belarus? There's that Barry Berwick bloke, sitting in prison in Minsk, facing execution, that had commented on Dr Watson's blog, asking for help."

"Good Lord!" Mycroft was mildly scandalised. "What is he facing execution for?"

"For stabbing and killing his wife while on holiday in Belarus," Ianto told him blandly. "Perhaps Sherlock will find _that_ a suitable challenge."

"That depends," Mycroft held out his hand for the PDA: "Is the man guilty?"

Ianto nodded. "I'm fairly sure that he is, sir. But I can fake a message – with Mummy's help, of course – in which he begs for Sherlock's help again, stating how Sherlock is the only one to prove the police wrong and save him. According to my research, the Doctor could rarely resist when people appealed to his vanity."

Mycroft thought about that for a moment.

"That could work," he finally decided. "But you'll have to go with him, in case he gets in trouble and the only way to save him would be to release him from that fob watch. I do have some influence in Belarus, but not enough to act in time."

Ianto suppressed a sigh. According to weather forecast, temperatures in Belarus were still freezing, and the last thing he wanted was to spend more time in Sherlock's – the Doctor's – company than absolutely necessary. But he'd accepted the responsibility when the chameleon arch had been activated and couldn't back off now.

"Of course, sir," he said unhappily.

~TBC~


	10. New Horizons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes from Molly's blog are from the official BBC website, of course. I deliberately left out the date to keep the timeline a bit vague, as mine doesn't follow canon in every detail.
> 
> * * *

Molly Hooper was tired, too. After the excitement with _Maman_ 's trunk and the diary – story book – whatever… and the letters Sherlock had found under the cover, work had descended on her like a landslide, so that she'd barely left the morgue for a week. It had been exhausting to the extreme.

So had been her colleagues, to be honest – _and_ Sherlock.

Currently she was sitting in her princess bed, wearing her most unflattering but very comfy flannel pyjamas, her laptop on her knees, the cat curling around her feet, and she was checking the comments on her latest blog entry.

Not that she expected any. Nobody read her blog (unlike John's). Perhaps people were scared off by the pink kitten theme? Even Sherlock's website – scientifically excellent yet unfit for mass consumption – had more comments.

The only one who ever commented on _Molly's_ blog was Molly herself. Perhaps if Mary had a computer, she would comment. Perhaps if she told Mary about the blog she would read it on John's laptop.

Mary was really nice. Perhaps they would become friends, given enough time. Molly could really use a friend. Her latest blog entry, from yesterday, was a pitiful proof of that.

She re-read it with a certain feeling of dread.

_Sorry, I've been busy recently. Work is the same old. Caroline's left Which we're all quite happy about because we were sick of hearing about that flipping hedge._

_Toby's still brilliant. He sleeps on my bed now, which is really nice. Toasty!_

_Oh, and Sherlock came in again tonight. Just back from Belarus, he said – I wonder what would he do there, of all places? Of course, he never told. And he was blatantly flirting with me, and I know he's doing it and I should tell him to stop but I don't! And, of course, he was only doing it so I'd help him with something. As soon as he got what he wanted, he was off._

_OMG! I nearly just wrote 'At least Toby will never leave me! 'I'm becoming a Mad Spinster!_

God, this _was_ embarrassing! What was she _thinking_? Obviously, she wasn't thinking at all! She even used Sherlock's name, which she'd sworn to herself she'd _never_ do! She'd have to delete the entry, as soon as she figured out _how_ to do it!

At times like this it was almost comforting to know that nobody actually _read_ her blog.

Or did they? As she stared at the screen in mortal embarrassment, a comment appeared under the entry.

_Hi, sorry, are you the lady who works in the morgue? The one with the nose?_ _**Jim** _ _, 00:14_

A _comment_! An actual comment, after months and, of course, it just _had_ to be for such an embarrassing entry! But who was this Jim character? She hit Reply and typed hurriedly.

_Who are you?_ _**Molly Hooper** _ _, 00:15_

The answer came immediately.

_Sorry, I work in the IT dept. Stupid night shift._ _**Jim** _ _, 00:17_

In the IT dept? Night shift? This guy worked at _Bart's_? And he'd seen her? And he'd become interested enough to look up her blog? And he wasn't scared away by the pink kittens?

As she was trying to process it, another comment appeared.

_Are you all right? You've gone quiet…_ _**Jim** _ _, 00:22_

She snapped out of her mild shock and quickly typed out a reply.

_Sorry, I 'm just feeling a little silly. I didn't know anyone read my blog. What's wrong with my nose?_ _**Molly Hooper** _ _, 00:26_

Again, the reply came immediately.

_Nothing. It's a cute nose. I hope you don't mind me saying. I'm here all night, so I need a bit of distraction._ _**Jim** _ _, 00:28_

Okay, she could do distraction. Even if that was all she was for this 'Jim', he'd complimented her on her nose. Nobody had done _that_ before, either. Well, nobody but Mike Stamford, but poor Mike just wasn't her cup of tea."

Another message appeared while she was ruminating.

_Do you like coffee?_ _**Jim** _ _, 00:30_

She replied in the positive, completely baffled. Was he asking her out? Was that even possible?

Apparently, it was, because the next message said:

_Would you like to meet me for coffee? In the canteen?_ _**Jim** _ _, 00:35_

She was thinking furiously. She wouldn't get dressed and go back to _Bart's_ for anyone (save for Sherlock, a teasing little inner voice commented), but she was more than willing to go in a bit earlier in the morning.

_Erm… okay. What about when you come off-shift in the morning?_ _**Molly Hooper** _ _, 00:40_

As before, the answer came immediately.

_See you there!_ _**Jim** _ _, 00:41_

With that, he'd obviously signed off because no further comments appeared. Still, Molly felt delighted. Granted, a coffee date was nothing serious – not yet, nor did it guarantee that anything would come out of it – but it was something to look forward to.

_And_ it was this Jim character, whoever he might be, who'd asked _her_ out. Who'd noticed her, without her going extra lengths to catch his attention.

She remembered her pitiful and deeply humiliating effort to ask Sherlock out on a coffee date. That infuriating berk had not even _realised_ what she was doing! He'd simply ordered his coffee to be brought to the lab, as if Molly had been a waitress, not somebody who put her job – a job she'd worked so very hard to get! – at risk for his sake on a regular basis!

Perhaps going out on a date with this Jim character was the first step in the right direction. Meaning getting over Sherlock and his arrogant, hurtful ways, and moving on with her life.

Of course, comments on her blog were not the right way to know somebody. But Jim sounded really nice. And he had suggested a place that was know territory to them both. If she would feel uncomfortable, she could simply walk away.

But perhaps she _wouldn't_ want to walk away. After all, office romances were… well, _romantic_. A lot of people met their significant others at work, didn't they?

She had to admit that having a secret admirer was the most exciting thing that happened to her for a long time. Well, save for getting _Maman'_ s trunk, but that was a different matter entirely.

Jim must have noticed her some time ago. Perhaps he'd watched her from afar. Nothing stalkerish (or so she hoped) but with interest. Interest was good. Interest could lead to _so_ much more!

Switching off first her laptop and then her bedside lamp, Molly Hooper lay back in her curtained bed and smiled. Quite unexpectedly, a new horizon seemed to appear in the dreary monotony of her nonexistent love life, and she embraced it fully and enthusiastically.

The return of _Maman_ 's storybook seemed to bring her luck, which was long overdue.

~The End – for now~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part of this particular installment. The series will be continued in "The Game Master", eventually.


End file.
